


So Your Kryptonian's Been Exposed to Phenylethylamine

by RileyC



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, Man of Steel (2013), Superman - All Media Types, World's Finest - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aphrodisiacs, Dorks in Love, Dubious Consent Due To Alien Biology, Easter Eggs, M/M, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-23 05:02:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10712736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: Remember how Clark was hitchhiking his way to Ellesmere Island in MoS? Yes, so has anyonenotwondered how it would have been if a certain Gotham billionaire stopped to pick him up? This is that story, taking a few wrong turns at Albuquerque along the way. Orarethey wrong turns? ;-)This story is not related to "Some Care Should Be Taken When Feeding Your Kryptonian," although there is a certain theme in common.Also, while the following story is an AU spin on events in the DCEU movie series, it is not an attempt to "fix" anything.  The author has no problems with the movies.





	So Your Kryptonian's Been Exposed to Phenylethylamine

 

****

 

 Clark stared at the front page of the __Daily Planet__  and huffed a sigh. “I told her it wasn’t an S.”

 

Bruce, rumpled in a black silk dressing gown that was gradually slipping off his shoulders, breathed in the life-affirming aroma of fresh, hot coffee. “Ms. Lane?”

 

Clark nodded and relinquished the paper when Bruce tugged on it. “I know this wasn’t how you planned on me making my first appearance.” He made note of a fresh set of bruises that looked like someone had dug their fingers into Bruce’s right shoulder with considerable force. The week-old scar on his chest, reminder of a knife slash, was healing up nicely. Clark wasn’t sure if it was progress or alarming that he could catalog those kinds of details with something like detachment now. Not actual detachment, however. Coping mechanism was more in the ballpark.

 

Bruce shrugged; the black silk slid a fraction further. “What’s done is done,” he said with a philosophical air. “You didn’t have a choice.”

 

No, he hadn’t. Watching live coverage of a rogue asteroid as it hurtled earthward, Metropolis projected to be ground zero for its impact, there hadn’t been time to debate, to consult. Could he even stop it, though? All the tests they had conducted to discover his limits, when the moment came there was nothing for it but to leap into action, do all that he could and hope it would enough.

 

“Good photo,” Bruce said as he took his time looking it over. Full-page, full-color, it showed him -- Superman -- amid the smoking rubble that was all that remained of the asteroid. The photographer, James Olsen, had captured the image right as a breeze caught the cape and fluttered it out behind him and sunlight beamed down on him.

 

If the subject were anyone else--Batman, for instance--Clark could have admired it. As it was, he felt a bit self-conscious. The costume wasn’t exactly discreet and understated.

 

Bruce turned to page two, where the story began. “’On Kal-El’s world the symbol stands for hope. On this world after today, it will stand for Superman.’” Bruce put the paper down and reached for his coffee, as usual drinking it black, not even half a teaspoon of sugar or a drop of cream to blunt the taste. Clark didn’t know how he did it. “The public and Lois Lane have spoken. You’re Superman. Suck it up. Or did you have your heart set on being The Hope?”

 

“I didn’t want to be The Hope.” He felt foolish now and concentrated on the lavish breakfast Alfred had prepared--scrambled eggs, bacon and sausage, sticky buns loaded with cinnamon and pecans, a basket of toasted English muffins. If Alfred’s pancakes weren’t quite as fluffy as the ones his mother made, they were of far superior quality to most of the diner fare he had grown accustomed to. Besides, Alfred was so pleased to have someone around who actually enjoyed food that Clark couldn’t have complained no matter the quality.

 

When the topic of what to call him had first come up, he had made a suggestion--The Krypton Kid. Bruce had shot that down with one loaded look. Clark hadn’t been overly attached to the name but he hadn’t noticed Bruce coming up with anything better.

 

“Did you have a name in mind?” he asked now.

 

Busy spreading marmalade on an English muffin, Bruce shrugged. The dressing gown slipped some more. It was 9:30 on a beautiful June morning, the official start of summer still two weeks away. Clark should have been thinking of how the crops would do this year, if there would be enough rain. He should be pondering what it meant that the world knew him now and what the fallout might be.

 

Instead his thoughts drifted to how Bruce looked this morning as he had stepped out onto the terrace to join him. Sleepy, rumpled, a bit louche with cotton pajama bottoms riding low on his hips; as if he had just come from bed and could be easily persuaded to return there.

 

Bruce, wearing one of his bespoke suits like a second skin, not a hair out of place, was a striking figure. There was a reason he made all those best dressed and most beautiful glossy magazines. But Bruce barefoot and tousled, completely at ease, was a vision to take one’s breath away and prompt a wish to be the one to lure him back to bed.

 

Clark hastily backpedaled away from that train of thought and trusted there was nothing to betray him as Bruce looked at him now, gaze thoughtful and considering. Was he pleased that Clark had skipped the plaid this morning and opted to layer up with a denim blue long-sleeved henley over  a white one? “What?” He tugged at the collars, thought about doing up the buttons.

 

Bruce shook his head. “I was just thinking that Ms. Lane may have been inspired, actually. Superman has a ring to it.”

 

Given his prickly attitude toward Lois, that was a tremendous concession coming from Bruce. It also likely meant that he hadn’t come up with anything better in the meantime.

 

“Little pretentious,” Clark said with a shrug of his shoulders. He poured coffee, stirred in sugar and cream as much for flavor as to watch Bruce shudder at what he termed crass adulteration of the perfect brew of life that was coffee.

 

“You can fly and shoot fire from eyes, Clark. You’re the closest humanity’s been to a demigod in thousands of years. That calls for something majestic. And why are you wearing two layers? Are you cold?”

 

Since they had discussed the potential for his appearance to inspire any number of religious interpretations, with Clark appalled at the idea and Bruce all __que sera sera__  about it, Clark welcomed the opportunity to skip another debate on the matter.  He shrugged again. “I…felt like two layers. After yesterday.”

 

Elbows on the table and chin resting on his hands, Bruce studied him again before giving a slight nod. “I understand.”

 

Clark nodded back, thought Bruce really might.  After a lifetime spent doing his best to blend in, to never stand out and draw attention, it felt almost spooky to have everything out there at last, to be that known, that exposed. He wasn’t cold--but he had felt a chill getting dressed this morning, seeing the news reports on every channel. There was a sense of liberation, no doubt about that, but it would take getting used to.

 

“It’s going to take awhile to really sink in, to get used to the new normal.”

 

“For the whole world,” Bruce said. Not because Clark wasn’t intensely aware of that but, he suspected, to mitigate the weirdness. “You looked like you felt the cold that day.Or something,” Bruce went on, meditative now.

 

Puzzled for a moment, Clark’s head tilted a bit. “That day…?”

 

One corner of Bruce’s mouth lifted. “When I picked you up by the side of the road.”

 

Clark grimaced, failing to see the humor. “It wasn’t like I was a hobo turning tricks or something.”

 

Bruce choked on his coffee, coughed, glared across the table. “Do not put images like that in my head.”

 

It was Clark’s turn to smile--but he kept it low-key.

 

They had been over this as well, how he didn’t know he could fly at that point. Looking back, yes, Bruce’s usual rejoinder of, “How do you not know you can __fly__?” was perfectly justified. All Clark could ever say was that he hadn’t known a lot of things about himself. What was he supposed to have done, climbed up to the top of the barn and taken a flying leap out into space, just to see?

 

He had never felt closer to finding all of those answers than that day, though, on the road, ready to press on no matter the weather. He would have made his way to Ellesmere Island one way or another. That Bruce Wayne happened along at just the right moment had been a stroke of luck. The kind that made him wonder at coincidence--and wonder if it __had__  just been good fortune smiling down…

 

****::previously::** **

 

 _ _An omen?__  he wondered as he tracked a wedge of geese as they honked by overhead in perfect V-formation. He had chased too many wild geese over the years for his hopes to soar now. Experience argued the probability that Ellesmere Island would prove to be another dead end. Still, it wasn’t like his calendar was crammed with other pressing business, and you just never knew.

 

He preferred to take his cue from the lone straggler up there, trying mightily to catch up with the other geese soaring through a sky heavy with winter. Cheering the lone goose on, “Come on, you can do it!” Clark smiled as the straggler made it and took its place among the other geese on the outer line of the wedge.

 

Drama concluded, he shifted his duffel bag higher on his shoulder and walked on. Times like these he wished his strange abilities including something more in the way of modes of transport than leaping and bursts of speed. Instantaneous teleportation might have come in handy. Try as he might, he had never been able to tap into anything like that.

 

The cold didn’t bother him much, that was something, and he would reach somewhere with a cheap motel by nightfall. He could walk on through the night if necessary. He’d done it before. Somehow his mother would divine it, though, in that magic way that mothers the world over did, and she would worry that he wasn’t taking care of him. __“Just because you can pick up a tractor with one hand doesn’t mean you don’t need eight hours sleep in a real bed.”__

__

He smiled at the memory and hoped he would be able to get back to Smallville soon. It meant a lot that she supported him on this (so far) endless quest to discover where he came from, and why. __“Guess when you come from somewhere that far away, it takes awhile longer to find yourself.”__

 

The time hadn’t been wasted. He had seen so much of the world, places that had only been far-off, exotic names on a map growing up. If he didn’t know what alien sky he had been born under, he had discovered that he loved to write, to share stories of the people he met in his travels. If he ever did put down roots, something that was increasingly on his mind, that was something he would want to pursue.

 

And if Ellesmere Island was one more dead end, would he close that door at last and stop searching? Could he? He touched the key, the talisman he wore around his neck, unable to answer that question. He had carried the conviction too long, the certainty that there were answers somewhere out there. It wouldn’t be easy to drop it and let it be.

 

The snow was starting to pick up. The last weather report he’d heard had warned of possible blizzard conditions. While he could manage and press on through that, he couldn’t deny the idea of shelter, a roof over his head and a bed to sleep in, would be desirable in that kind of storm.

 

He stuck his thumb out as a semi approached. It barreled on by, tires churning up icy, muddy slush that spattered him. He was really starting to develop an aversion to truckers.

 

He walked on, more drivers passing him. A road sign announced the next town was forty-five miles up ahead. Piece of cake, really. If he put on some speed--or leaped--he could be there in no time The journey wasn’t always part of the adventure.

 

Worth the risk? Clark considered. Traffic wasn’t heavy along this stretch of road but it was steady. Anyway, what would anyone see? Even if they could make out some details, they wouldn’t believe it.

 

The purr of an expensive motor distracted him and he looked around as a black, Cadillac XTS, glided past. Not much chance of a ride there, he supposed. Odd, though, how the driver slowed and idled just up ahead where the road curved around the cliff. A quick scan confirmed the driver was checking him out in the rear view mirror.

 

As he drew even, he considered the odds were 50/50 of being offered a ride. He passed the sedan, recalculated: 60/40--no, more 70/30 as he continued onward, no invitation issued. Then again… Behind him, the Cadillac purred back into action and came up alongside him, kept pace with him. Clark glanced over as the passenger side window slid down.

 

“Need a lift?”

 

Clark ducked down for a look inside. If he accepted, this would be the most luxurious ride he had enjoyed in a long time. That deluxe quality extended to the man at the wheel in a gray, tailored-three piece suit, silk tie and French cuffs. Clark put him at around forty, dark hair touched with gray at the temples for that distinguished look. On second thought, he drew a circle around that word in his mind, dissatisfied with the description. He couldn’t put it down to more than a vibe, the notion there was more going on with this man than that word, distinguished, conveyed. There was no current of danger anyway. Anyway, was any serial killer ever this well dressed?

 

“Well?” The door lock popped. “Are you getting in?”

 

Nearly one hundred percent certain he was not going to be lured back to some secret lair where unspeakable things were done, Clark nodded. “Thanks.” And if he was wrong, he could make sure no one else ever fell prey to this man. Win-win all around, as far as he could see.

 

“Stow your bag in the trunk,” the man said.

 

Clark went around as the trunk popped. He took note of the luggage--Louis Vuitton--as well as the absence of any blood stains, ropes, or other serial killer paraphernalia, and put his bag inside.

 

“Ready?” his benefactor--maybe--asked as Clark settled into the passenger seat and closed the door.

 

“Ready,” Clark confirmed as he fastened the seat belt.

 

The window rolled back up, the door locked again, and the Cadillac purred back into action.

 

“Where are you headed?”

 

Clark shrugged, stretched his legs out, appreciating the seat had already been adjusted. “Just,” he waved in a negligent manner, “up ahead.” The interior even smelled good. Or was that the other man’s cologne? Impossible to check without looking like a weirdo, so he let it go.

 

“Must be nice, to not have to be anywhere.”

 

Clark checked the comment for nuance but couldn’t detect anything beyond an incongruous note that he wanted to categorize as wistful. If that made any sense. “It has it’s points,” he said, elbow propped on the armrest.

 

“But maybe not all it’s cracked up to be?” the other man said, as though he had been listening for shades of meaning as well.

 

Clark glanced over at him. “Maybe.”

 

“I’m Bruce Wayne, by the way.”

 

 _ _Bruce Wayne__ … The name rang a bell. Clark shrugged to himself; it would come to him. “I’m…” He swore he meant to say ‘Joe.’ “I’m Clark.”

 

“Pleased to meet you, Clark.”

 

“Good to meet you too, Bruce.” An odd, uncanny sensation shivered through him then. When Bruce Wayne gave him a puzzled look, he shook his head. “I… Felt like someone walked over my grave.”

 

“Sounds a bit ominous.”

 

“No, it…” Clark could only shrug again, as nonplussed as he had ever been. “I don’t know what it is,” he confessed, confused and embarrassed by it. “Have you ever experienced déjà vu?”

 

“You feel like you’ve done this before?” If Bruce Wayne thought he’d stopped to pick up a nut and was having second thoughts, there was no indication of it.

 

“Sort of. Not exactly.” Clark waved it away. “It’s been a long day.”

 

Bruce Wayne nodded. “I’ve had a few of those.” That was the kind of thing everyone said. Something in the way Bruce held himself, a glimpse of empathy in his eyes before he looked away, lent substance to the words. “I probably look like someone you know. I’ve got one of those faces.”

 

That could explain it, yes, but… “You really don’t.”

 

Bruce Wayne tossed him an uncertain look and picked up the nonplussed baton.

 

Clark suspected they were both more comfortable driving on in silence for awhile after that.

 

~*~

_A day of firsts._

__

That would be one way to spin picking up a drifter by the side of the road, being on the verge of eating at a Denny’s, and very possibly spending the night at the Best Western across the street. Alfred would probably say it was good for him to get out, expand his horizons, make a friend.

 

He hated being away from Gotham. Even thought there were others perfectly able to step in and pick up the slack, Bruce always had the idea Gotham’s criminal element grew overexcited and bold when they got wind the Bat was absent. Alfred would have choice words to say about that as well, no doubt.

 

 _ _“Mr. Wayne, some kind of military goon squad’s here, trying to hijack our operation.”__ That had been Tamara Fox, giving him a head’s up on the Ellesmere Island situation. Tam had already alerted him about a signal the team had picked up, how she and her team were tracing it to the source, something buried in the ice. __“Mr. Wayne,”__ Tam hadn’t needed the dramatic pause; Bruce had picked up on her excitement, __“GPR detected an object. There’s something down there and I swear to God it looks like a spaceship.”__

 

That in itself might have persuaded Bruce to pay a visit. A spaceship, trapped under the ice for thousands of years. It sounded like something from an old science fiction movie, the kind where Kenneth Tobey saved the day and warned everyone to watch the skies.

 

He had told Tam to sit tight, cooperate, and he would make some phone calls and find out what was going on. His first call had been to Lucius, to let him know what was going on and get his help on finding out what it was all about.

 

At the end of it, they had some names--a Dr. Emil Hamilton who worked for DARPA, responsible for developing military technology; USAF Colonel Nathan Hardy, in charge of the military operation; and when Bruce and Lucius both wondered how a United States-led military operation was being carried out on Canadian soil, something called ARGUS headed by an Amanda Waller came up. At that point they slammed into a brick wall.

 

Bruce made a note to investigate further but his prime concern was to make sure Tam and her team were all right. Several phone calls later he had arranged to charter a helicopter to take him to Ellesmere Island. The one thing he hadn’t factored in was this snowstorm, high winds creating blizzard conditions that forced him off the road and into a Denny’s parking lot. Fume though he might at the delay, even he couldn’t do anything about the weather.

 

Alfred would probably snark about that too.

 

He eyed the distance between their parking space and the front door of the Denny’s, an improbable oasis in the storm. “Shall we make a run for it?” he asked Clark.

 

“Sure you want to risk it?” Clark gave him a significant look that focused on Bruce’s suit and polished wingtips..

 

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, son,” Bruce told him and enjoyed the look of annoyance that flickered across Clark’s face. He opened the door, dragged his coat from the backseat, and managed to shrug into it without getting socked by an extreme amount of snow. “After you.” He gestured to the entrance.

 

As they hurried across the parking lot, Bruce lost his footing on an icy patch of cement was braced for an awkward fall. Before it could happen, Clark had latched onto his arm, holding him steady until Bruce got his feet under him again. “Thank you.”

 

“Least I can do.”

 

“Hhn. Some people would say the least you could have done was watch me fall on my ass.”

 

Brows drawn together as if he was trying to process that idea but couldn’t get there, Clark said, “Guess I’m not like those people.”

 

“I guess you’re not.” Now why did that make Clark duck his head like he was embarrassed? Bruce sensed a mystery. Not top priority perhaps but one to be filed away for future reference.

 

“So,” Bruce looked around the interior, “this is a Denny’s.” The place wasn’t jammed to the rafters but it was evident a lot of other people had had the same idea to come in for food, warmth, and shelter.

 

Clark gave him an amused look. “I take it this is your first time? Do you need me to walk you through it?”

 

“Somebody thinks he’s a comedian,” Bruce grumbled. He wasn’t prepared for the brilliance of the full-on grin he got in return. If Dick had a thousand-watt smile, Clark’s was ten times that. If it was a battle to not return one of Dick’s smile, it was a battle lost with Clark. “Yes, well,” he __harrumped__ to try and gain some control of things, “do we just find a table?” Every stool at the counter was occupied, same for the tables that ran down the center of the dining room. Looked like there were still a few booths available, though.

 

“I think Glenda is coming to help us.” Clark pointed out a smiling hostess, there to greet them and get them seated in a small booth towards the back. Her name tag did indeed read ‘Glenda.’ How had Clark made that out when she was still halfway across the room? Must have eyes like a hawk. Glenda left them with menus glasses of water, and a promise someone would be by to take their order in a jiffy, and then went off to take care of other customers. 

 

Bruce draped his coat on the banquette and stretched his legs under the table. When he got tangled up with Clark, they both shifted and got themselves sorted, trading awkward looks as they both muttered, “Sorry.”

 

“So what’s good here?” Bruce said as he looked the menu over. “And what do they mean, skillet dinners?”

 

“They,” Clark looked across the table at him, head tilted as though examining some strange cryptid he had only heard rumors of, “serve your dinner on a skillet. You are from this planet, right?”

 

Bruce glowered across at him. “More jokes,” he muttered, intent on his menu.

 

“It’s just they have TV commercials on all the time advertising the place.”

 

“I don’t watch a lot of television.” At least Clark hadn’t asked if he lived in a cave or something. “What are you having?”

 

“Ah, I think,” Clark checked the menu some more, “the Crazy Spicy Skillet.”

 

The Crazy Spicy Skillet… Bruce found that one, winced at the jalapenos, five pepper sauce and et cetera, and said, “I’ll go with the salmon.”

 

“That sounds safe.”

 

Bruce refused to rise to that one. He didn’t miss the teasing glimmer in the blue eyes that looked over the menu at him, though. 

 

They placed their orders, including a side order of  Bacon Tater Tots for Clark. “I’m not even going to ask,” Bruce said as the waitress brought coffee.

 

“They’re Tater Tots wrapped in bacon,” Clark said anyway. “Tater Tots are--”

 

“I know what Tater Tots are.” He hadn’t, before Dick came to live at the Manor. That had been an education across the board. “Why would you wrap them in bacon?”

 

“To make them even more delicious?”

 

This was, hands down, the most ridiculous conversation he’d ever had with anyone who wasn’t an inmate at Arkham. Suspicious, he examined the other man for some tell-tale sign that he might be a former inmate. A voice that sounded a lot like Alfred wanted to know what this sign might be. Bruce ignored it.

 

If Clark had ever been a resident at Arkham, Bruce had never seen him. He would have remembered that face, the chiseled jawline, the ridiculously blue eyes. He hadn’t known eyes that blue existed in real life. Bruce could admit to himself that he had been moved to offer him a lift in part because of his striking good looks. He had wondered, too, if the man was all right since he had been standing there with his coat and denim shirt open, and his white henley unbuttoned as well, in temperatures fast approaching below freezing. Actually he was still unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his coat tossed on the bench beside him. It was a good look for him, especially with the little bit of scruff going along that perfect jaw, dark curls tousled. Another time, another place…

 

Bruce pulled his thoughts back where they belonged. This was neither the time or place for them. Pity, that.

 

Besides, Bruce would have to subtract several points for what the other man was doing to his coffee. Not one spoonful of sugar, oh no, and not even two--four, no wait: five… _ _five__ spoonfuls of sugar, and two-- _ _two__ \--coffee creamers dumped into the brew. “Good lord,” he murmured in a kind of fascinated horror as he watched Clark stir up the mess.

 

Clark stared across at him. “What?”

 

“That’s an atrocity. You should be tried for crimes against coffee beans.”

 

Unfazed, Clark proceeded to take a healthy mouthful of the vile concoction and smile like he was in a commercial for it.

 

Bruce shook his head, hands curved protectively around his own cup of untainted coffee. “I’m sorry, I can’t know you.”

 

One dark eyebrow quirked upward in a haughty manner that would have been more convincing without the sparkle of laughter in his eyes. “I suppose you write hipster haiku about it.”

 

“What the fuck’s hipster haiku? Can you swear in Denny’s?” Bruce cast a look over his shoulder, as though Glenda might be coming for him to toss him out. She looked like she could do it.

 

“I think you’re safe. And,” stalling for time, Clark stretched the syllable out for all it was worth, “hipster haiku is haiku written by hipsters.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Bruce took a sip of his coffee, found it surprisingly acceptable and took a more generous sip. “Let’s hear an example.”

 

Brows drawn together, fingers tapping on the Formica--counting out syllables, Bruce realized--Clark recited:

 

“Black and bitter brew;

Spoon clanks: sugar, cream, and stir--

Cup of alchemy.”

 

Bruce nodded. “I like the cup of alchemy thing. Who’s the author?”

 

“Ah,” Clark ducked his head then, fiddling with an empty creamer container, “me, I guess.”

 

“Spur of the moment, or have you been carrying that around awhile?”

 

Broad shoulders lifted in a diffident shrug. “Spur of the moment.”

 

Thus, tapping out the syllables on the table. “You have a way with words.”

 

“I hope so.” Still with the modesty but Bruce thought he detected a note of pride woven through it.

 

“Is that you’re thing, then? Writing? The whole Jack Kerouac, _On the Road_ bit?”

 

“Little bit. Not exactly. Maybe more Bill Bryson.”

 

“That’s what you do, travel, write about what you discover?”

 

“Try to.”

 

Bruce nodded, debated if it was worth embarrassing him some more, decided to go for it. “It suits you.”

 

As predicted, Clark shot him an uncertain look, a bashful half-smile gracing his features for an instant. “Thank you.”

 

“Is it crass if I ask if you’ve had anything published?”

 

Clark looked like he was thinking about it. “I think it’s only crass if you ask if I’ve made any money.”

 

“Duly noted. So, have had you had anything published?”

 

“Few things.” Clark looked relieved that their dinners were on the way at last. “Some pieces online, couple of magazines.”

 

Bruce watched as their waitress, Leeanne, got everything arranged; intrigued to note they really did serve the food on a skillet.  “Have you thought about doing a book?” he asked as he took a bite of the salmon. As with the coffee, it surprised him in a good way.

 

Watching him, Clark said, “Better than you expected?”

 

“I try not to have expectations--but yes.” Alfred might be appalled at the diner fare--then again, Alfred might just be relieved to see him sitting down to a meal. He nagged him about it often enough. “So, a book?”

 

Digging into his own spicy chicken, eating a jalapeno like it was candy, Clark said, “I’ve thought about it.”

 

“But?”

 

“But,” Clark bit into one of the bacon-wrapped Tater Tots, chewed, swallowed, “my real goal has always been journalism.”

 

“Network TV?” God knew the camera would love him.

 

“Ah, I was thinking newspapers, actually.”

 

“Might not be much of a future there. They’re supposed to be a dying institution.” Bruce watched Clark nudge the plate of Tater Tots towards him; he resolved to remain impervious to their temptation.

 

“Some will survive.”

 

Optimism and likely a strong streak of idealism as well. Bruce didn’t think they still made them like that. “So if you could work for any paper,” his will was crumbling in the matter of Tater Tots, “which would you go for? The _Gotham Gazette?_ ”

 

As though sensing weakness, Clark gave the plate another nudge along the table. “If I had my pick, it would be the _Daily Planet._ ”

 

“Hhn. What’s wrong with the _Gotham Gazette_?”

 

“Little tabloid for my taste.”

 

“Gotham’s a tabloid kind of town.” And what the hell: Bruce stabbed his fork into one of the Tater Tots.

 

“My point exactly.”

 

Bruce ate the Tater Tot while he tried to decipher what that meant and if he should take umbrage. “What have you got against Gotham?”

 

“Nothing; I’ve never been there.”

 

“But it’s not high hat enough for you.”

 

The eyebrow went up again. “I’m from Kansas, Bruce. Everything’s high hat to me. It’s just…” He frowned, chomped another Tater Tot as he thought out his position. “The _Daily Planet_ has a stellar reputation, that’s all.”

 

“Hhn. A stellar reputation for high-minded crusades for justice and a fair deal, you mean.” Bruce strengthened his resolve against the lure of the Tater Tots. “I’m not saying that’s a bad thing,” he went on as Clark favored him with a dubious look that clearly questioned his moral fiber, “but some might argue a city like Gotham needs that more than Metropolis.”

 

“I suppose that’s true. What have __you__  got against Metropolis?”

 

“You mean besides how it’s a snooty prima donna that needs its nose rubbed in its own hypocrisy?” Bruce shrugged. “Nothing much.”

 

“Well if _that’s_  all…”

 

Bruce sighed, relaxed back in his seat as he warmed to his subject. Alfred and Dick had heard it all before and long ago mastered the art of tuning out his rants when it was familiar material.“If Gotham had a neighborhood popularly known as Suicide Slum, there would be no end to calls to clean up the city, make it safe for decent folk. The mayor of Metropolis gives a speech about how plans for urban renewal will revive Suicide Slum and everybody eats it up and acts like that isn’t code for clearing out the poor and disenfranchised and filling the neighborhood with ritzy restaurants and boutiques and million dollar condos. Think you’d be allowed to write about that for the _Daily Planet?_ ”

 

“I’d find out.”

 

“If the answer was no?”

 

“Then I’d write about that too.” Easy words to say. From Clark they carried a conviction that Bruce found tempting to believe. “It sounds like you’re a crusader too.”

 

No way he could explain the ironic smile that quirked his lips for an instant. If it looked like an arrogant smirk, Bruce was fine with that. “I care about Gotham. There’s so much more to it than what makes the national media. It could be great--it _is_ great, but there’s so much untapped potential waiting to explode.” He pulled a face at that word choice. “You know what I mean.”

 

Clark smiled, nodded. “I do. The philanthropy’s not just a tax write-off then.”

 

So the penny _had_ dropped.  Bruce hadn’t been sure until now. And he tried not to bristle at the implication in Clark’s word. It wasn’t meant that way. “Not _just_  a write-off, no,” he said, added the smirk, curious to see if Clark bought it. Most people would. Most people were content with the facade.

 

There was no basis for it, nothing logical or concrete, but Bruce had a feeling Clark was not most people. It was a long time since he had run into someone like that. A little voice whispered things like this didn’t just happen, that their could be skulduggery afoot. It could be right--melodramatic, but right. He was drawn like a moth to a flame all the same.

 

The moth didn’t always get fried. Not always.

 

~*~

“Look, I’ll make you a deal.” Bruce crossed the room to pull back the curtains. Outside the glass the snow continued to come down heavily, whipped by the wind and driven against the glass. “I will hire you to accompany me to Ellesmere Island and I’ll deduct half the cost of this room from your wages. Can you live with that?” He had been gracious about splitting the Denny’s check when Clark insisted he could pay his own way. That had been a point of pride. This was sheer obstinacy.

 

Still just inside the doorway, a spark of interest flickered across Clark’s face. “You’re going to Ellesmere Island?”

 

Bruce took one more look at the storm that raged on outside, then closed the curtains. “I have some business there, yes. What about it?”

 

Clark took a couple more steps inside and even deigned to set his bag down on the floor and place his coat over the arm of a chair. “I picked up some chatter at this place I was working, soldiers talking about some big discovery up there. Thought I’d go and check it out. What would you hire me to do?”

 

Provocative, sensual possibilities did _not_  pop into Bruce’s head. Or, if they did, as long as he kept them to himself they didn’t count. If he told himself that often enough it would be true, right?

 

Needing distractions, clinical ones, he took stock of the room, marked the exits--official and otherwise--out of habit. There was no reason to expect trouble, except that experience had taught him the minute he dropped his guard was when adversity would strike. He eyed the bag by the closet, the one he hadn’t let Clark handle, and assured himself he could get to it in a split second if needed. He had already staked his claim to the bed nearest the door by the simple expedient of tossing his coat across the bedspread. If it wasn’t his usual luxury suite it was far from a seedy, fleabag hotel, and was more than adequate for one night.

 

Bruce tossed out a suggestion. “You could be my dogsbody. No? How about personal assistant?”

 

“Isn’t that same thing?”

 

“Yeah, but it’ll look better on your résumé. Deal?”

 

Turning it over, Clark nodded after another moment. “Deal. Should we shake on it or something?”

 

Bruce thought about that--thought, too, that anyone else would want something down in writing about money, benefits, and job specifications. “Actually there’s one more piece of business before we seal the deal.” As he spoke, he watched that guarded look veil Clark’s features again. Even on their short acquaintance Bruce was getting good at spotting it. It appeared whenever the conversation took a personal turn, only lifting when Clark determined whatever secret he guarded was still cloaked and hidden. Impossible not to wonder about those secrets and want to discover them.  

 

“What business?”

 

Bruce approached him where he had apparently taken root near the door. “I don’t need to see a  résumé, or to know your life story”-- _ding ding ding:_ lie detected--“but a name would be good.”

 

Clark nodded, the small gesture imbued with a sense of solemnity that must have been catching because Bruce felt it too. He was reminded of old beliefs in the power of names, and how it could be unwise to ever share your true name. Some truth there; that was why Bruce Wayne could never be connected to Batman.

 

Like a finger snap, though, the moment passed and a perfectly ordinary, entirely suitable name was offered--“I’m Clark Kent.”

 

No blare of trumpets, no ominous rumbles, or quaking of the earth. He was Clark Kent. Bruce nodded in acknowledgment and held out his hand for that handshake. “Welcome to Wayne Enterprises, Clark Kent,” he said, intending to make light of it. That he experienced a frisson of something ineffable as Clark clasped his hand did rather derail that. What had Clark called it, like someone walked over his grave?

 

“Are you all right?” Clark asked. The way he looked at him, earnest and concerned, made Bruce wonder if he had glimpsed something woozy in his eyes.

 

He pasted on a smile that felt like a clumsy sham and said, “I think I’ve caught your déjà vu.”

 

“There’s a lot of it going around.” It was lame, beyond feeble really, but Clark offered it with such straight-faced sincerity that it was exactly what Bruce needed to regain his equilibrium.

 

“Yeah, think I’ve heard that.” Aware he was still grasping Clark’s hand, he withdrew his hand--or tried to. Clark appeared in no hurry to break contact. “Ah, Clark--”

 

“Do you believe in the multiverse theory?” As Clark spoke, he shifted his hold just a bit so that his fingers stroked the sensitive inside of Bruce’s wrist. Lazily, maddeningly, back and forth over the confluence of veins. And that was strange: Bruce would swear Clark wasn’t holding him that firmly and yet try as he might, Bruce couldn’t withdraw his hand. All he got for his efforts was a delicious friction, skin against skin, that made him crave more tactile sensation. Was he even trying that hard to get free?

 

“Multiverse?” He licked his lips--and felt heat flood his body at the avid, ardent way Clark watched him. What the hell was going on? How had they gotten _here_? “Like,” he scrambled to pick up the thread of conversation, focus on that, “like parallel universes?”

 

“Umm hmm.” Clark released his hand at last but blatantly invaded his space in the next instant. Bruce could feel the warmth of his body. Could feel Clark’s breath on his skin. “Maybe that’s what déjà vu is.” His voice was muffled, his head ducked as he… Sniffed him? Breathed in his scent? There was no other way to describe it, nothing to warn Bruce how erotic it would feel. “Maybe it’s memories, echoes of memories we pick up on from lives we’ve led on other worlds.”

 

Bruce really envied him the ability to fully form coherent thought _and_ articulate it. All he could manage was, “Maybe.” Was there a connection between his scattered thoughts and how Clark was busy with his necktie, undoing the knot, opening his collar? Yes, yes, there was a connection, Bruce confirmed as Clark ducked his head to press kisses along his throat, under his chin--Christ, had his Adam’s apple always been an erogenous zone? It was now. Everywhere Clark’s lips and tongue explored, lingered to taste and savor him felt ignited with desire.

 

“You smell good.” Clark murmured this against Bruce’s skin, his diabolical tongue teasing the spot where ear met jaw.

 

“It’s…ah…a new cologne. Tycoon.” He had been given a sample in hopes of getting him to endorse the cologne. He had turned them down but kept the bottle. It had been a passing whimsy to splash some on this morning. “I’ll get you a bottle.” Nothing struck him as off-kilter about making such an offer. Or, rather, everything about this was off-kilter, so what was one thing more? If he could answer that question he might he halfway to figuring out what was going on.

 

As Clark rumbled against his ear it felt far more imperative to work Clark’s white henley free and hike it up so he could run his hands along Clark’s naked back. God he was warm, Bruce thought as he pressed into that heat, wanting to feel it radiate through him. Crazy thought… Lots of those popping in his head as he felt the flex and ripple of muscle under his hands. Not crazy to conclude they both had way too many clothes on.

 

“You need to be naked.” He murmured this against Clark’s throat. Deliberately dropped his voice, put some growl into it, made it a command.

 

Clark’s response was a deep, throaty groan, helped along by the bites and kisses Bruce trailed along his throat. Clark buried one hand in Bruce’s hair, held him there, rendered speechless beyond a gasp that sounded like a heartfelt, “Yes.”

 

Another moment and he set Bruce back--no other way to describe how it felt. Something _dinged!_ in his head, tried to call attention to that, point out how it might be important. It was too far away, though, and he was much too riveted to the vision before him as Clark took off the denim shirt and tossed it away. He took more time with the henley, or maybe it just appeared that way, the slow upward tug of fabric, inch by inch of tantalizing flesh revealed.

 

Bruce couldn’t wait. Not another split second. He yanked the henley the rest of the way off, tossed it over his shoulder, and then found himself presented with so much luscious possibility that he hardly knew where to start. “You’re…” Adjectives stacked up, none of them up to the task.

 

“I’m what?” Clark cupped Bruce’s chin, tipped it up, blue eyes bright with want, with need. “I’m what, Bruce?” His voice was rough with it, a husky rasp that shot straight to Bruce’s groin.

 

“Mouth-watering.” Bruce cupped his hands along the strong neck, thumbs caressing. “Inspiring dissolute, licentious thoughts,” he murmured and let his hands slip downward.  His fingertips caught on nipples that grew hard as he rubbed them, his own desire stimulated by the low, throaty groans that escaped Clark. He glanced up, his breath caught in his throat for an instant at the way Clark’s head was tipped back against the wall, as if offering his entire body to be touched, kissed--to be worshiped. How could he spurn such an invitation? Bruce wondered as dark, crisp hair tickled his palms, his lips, as he kissed a path downward.

 

Before he could drop to his knees, Clark dragged him back up with one hand, kissing him breathless, like he could never get enough of kissing Bruce. That was all right, though: Bruce couldn’t needed to kiss him just as much urgency. Wrestling now, turning each other, tangled in each other, pushing off from the wall and only drawing apart to stare at each other in a kind of comedic horror as they fell, tumbled down onto the bed and sprawled there, neither daring to move a muscle as the bed creaked and shuddered beneath them, holding their breath as they waited for it to collapse.

 

It should have been like getting doused with a bucket of ice water. As the bed remained intact and they dared draw breath again, laughter did bubble up, releasing the frantic urgency but doing nothing to kill the mood. Eyes locked, laughter ebbed away. They shifted on the mattress, never quite losing contact. Fingers tangling, stroking along a forearm, lips pressed to a palm, to the tender inside flesh of a wrist, pulse fluttering against lips. It felt like a sybaritic feast, a sensual orgy. Were two people enough for an orgy? Bruce wouldn’t have thought so but his horizons were expanding--in more ways than one.

 

When he chuckled at his own, silent double entendre, Clark kissed the corner of his mouth, asked, “What?”

 

“Just amusing myself,” Bruce murmured back, turning the kiss into more, urgency building again.

 

Clark moved, threw a leg over Bruce and straddled his hips. “One of us has too many clothes on.”

 

“So do something about it.”

 

Head tilted to one side as though thinking about it, Clark’s gaze traveled the length of Bruce’s body. The intimacy of that hot gaze felt like another caress. The rapid rise and fall of that spectacular chest, beaded with sweat, told him Clark wasn’t far behind. The erection that brushed against his own was a damn good clue too.

 

“Uh-uh,” Clark breathed as Bruce reached to touch.

 

He batted Bruce’s hands away, stretched, the friction increasing. Bruce could hold out a long time if he had to. That didn’t make it any less maddening when every touch stoked desire,  and he was ready to take over as Clark appeared intent on delicately unfastening each and every shirt button. Relief of a sort flooded him as, frustrated with one recalcitrant button, Clark grabbed two handfuls of fabric, shirt and vest, and ripped, buttons popping.

 

“Take it out of my pay,” Clark said.

 

“I just might,” Bruce replied, half-serious. Thoughts of compensation evaporated in an instant when Clark bent to rain kisses along his chest, lavish attention on one nipple, then an old scar. Before Clark could ask about the scar, Bruce sought his mouth, tasting salt--feeling a shudder pass through the strong body.

 

“Clark? Are you all right?” He was really sweating, and there was a clammy quality to the perspiration.

 

“Uh…” Clark pulled back, almost wrenched himself away, swaying a bit as he rose up on his knees. “I don’t… I don’t feel so good,” he said, astonishment splashed across his features for an instant, just before his eyes rolled back and he began to topple forward.

 

Bruce grunted as Clark collapsed on top of him. "Clark? __Clark?”__ Bruce shoved at a shoulder. Nothing. He put more muscle into it, shoved harder. Clark still didn’t budge. “Goddammit…” He’d worked up  a sweat by the time he worked out from under Clark’s dead weight. How was he so heavy? Even passed out cold Bruce should have been able to move him easily.

 

He sat up, back against the headboard. No, not passed out, he realized. Clark’s eyes were open, and if there was a dazed and glassy look to them there was recognition as well. “I’ll get help,” he said, not sure where the hell his phone was right now.

 

He was reaching for the phone on the nightstand when a hand clamped on his wrist.

 

“No.” Voice hoarse, weak, Clark still injected a tone of command into the word. “No doctors.”

 

“Clark--”

 

“ _ _No__.” Clark’s head fell back on the pillow, eyelids fluttering. “I’ll be all right. Just…” He opened his eyes again, gaze flickering around the room in search of who knew what. There was something like yearning in his expression as he turned his face towards the curtained windows. “Just let me rest.”

 

“Is it your heart? Drugs?”

 

“Umm hmm.” Head rolling against the pillow, Clark bit his lip against a muscle spasm that ran through his body. “I’ll be all right,” he said. It would have been more convincing if his teeth weren’t gritted, body slick with sweat.

 

“I’m not going to sit here while you die on me.” And how many times had Bruce heard those very words from Alfred? Fate might not be a bitch but she did clearly enjoy irony.

 

“Won’t die,” Clark gasped out. “Promise.”

 

“Oh, yeah, you promise. That fixes everything,” Bruce grumbled.

 

“Sorry.” Clark looked at him with some hint of contrition. “Think I have to pass out now.” And just like that, as if a switch had been flipped, he went limp, body sprawling out on a gust of breath.

 

Alarm soaring, Bruce immediately checked his vitals, only able to dial down his adrenaline when he found that Clark was breathing easily, pulse and heart rate normal. He fingered the leather cord around Clark’s neck, the strange pendant that hung from it. He couldn’t identify the metal, if it was metal, and the design was markedly avante-garde, with some kind of stylized S on the bottom.

 

He shook his head, let the pendant drop. Useful--he needed to make himself useful. He surveyed the scene, blankets trailing on the floor, pillows knocked askew, Clark spreadeagled diagonally across the mattress. If he was forbidden to summon help, he could at least do something to make Clark more comfortable.

 

He had worked up another sweat by the time he got Clark shifted around, head propped on a pillow. Panting, he rocked back on his heels and considered the disparity in strength, in weight, that came up every time he tried to handle Clark. They were roughly the same size. If anything, he had a couple inches on Clark in height and maybe another fifteen to twenty pounds of muscle. That wasn’t even getting into all the skills he had honed for his night job. Yet Clark had displayed superior, __effortless__  strength at every turn, restraining Bruce and handling him with less effort than it would take Bruce to lift Selina. And whatever he weighed, Bruce could not budge him without a tremendous effort.

 

Impossible for his thoughts not to stray to the metahuman file he’d lifted from Lex Luthor-- _ _“Most guests content themselves with stealing soaps and bottles of liquor, Master Bruce.”__ \--and ponder the mysteries of Clark Kent in a new light. It was a reach, and he disliked the idea of coincidence, but he couldn’t quite shake the idea that he may have discovered an unknown metahuman by chance.

 

All that talk about a multiverse--had that been a clue, a hint? Far-fetched it might be but Bruce couldn’t dismiss the idea of parallel worlds out of hand. Too many credible scientists had speculated on the possibility; it wasn’t just the stuff of __Twilight Zone__  episodes and science fiction anymore.

 

Had Clark stepped into this world from some parallel Earth? That could explain his reluctance to hand out biographical details. Did it explain the instant connection between the two of them? How it felt like they had fallen into a familiar dance they had been performing for years?

 

Were there worlds where they never met, where only one of them existed? He thought about that, wondered if there would he a sense of emptiness, a phantom ache that could never be soothed because your other half was missing. He didn’t want to go to far down that road and start dealing with things like soul mates. He hadn’t been waiting for Clark Kent to come along and complete him. To complement him, though, be the yang to his yin?

 

No, that was crazy too. The whole thing was speculative fantasy, he concluded as he got up from the bed and tugged at his clothes. Another shirt ruined, he thought as he took off his coat and vest, the shirt hanging open and missing several buttons. Alfred would have words about that and Bruce toyed with the idea of telling Alfred how it had happened, to see his reaction. He snorted to himself and tossed everything over on the second bed. As if anything he did could surprise Alfred at this late date.

 

He pulled back the curtain again to check on the progress of the storm. The fury of the tempest had broken. Snow still fell but in more leisurely way, the view outside the window eerily illuminated in the orange glow of halogen street lights. He left the drapes open but let the sheers fall back in place.

 

This time of night in Gotham, he would be hitting the streets, ready for what the city’s criminals had to throw at him. He should have felt restless, antsy; too charged up with the need to get out and _do_  something to settle in for the night. Since he hoped to get an early start tomorrow, it wasn’t a bad idea to turn in for the night.

 

He paused at the foot of the bed, thought about it for a second and tugged Clark’s boots off. Not much else he could do, he supposed, as he checked the other man’s pulse once more and found it strong and steady. His color looked better, too, and when Bruce touched the back of his hand to Clark’s forehead the skin was warm but there was no sense of a fever.

 

He went into the bathroom, ran a washcloth under the tap and brought it back to run over Clark’s face, his chest, washing away the last of the clammy sweat. He took a the bedspread from the other bed and laid it over Clark, turned on the nightstand lamp, grabbed his overnight bag from the floor and headed for the bathroom.

 

Nothing had changed when Bruce returned fifteen minutes later, showered and changed into a pair of gray thermal jogger pants and a matching hoodie zipped over a t-shirt. He drew the line at sleeping in running shoes--but a pair was placed by the bed, ready in case of emergency. He stretched out on the second bed, thought about it, got up to pick his overcoat up off the floor, and took out the batarangs, gas pellets, smoke pellets, pellet grenades, and lock picks he had hidden away. Once he had redistributed everything on his person, he turned off the lamp and laid down again, hands folded over his stomach, putting himself into a state of rest. He might not sleep but it would suffice.

 

Except a restful state eluded him. He had taken care of any lingering sexual frustration in the shower, so that wasn’t it. No, the problem was the man sprawled across the other bed, handsome face _smooshed_ into a pillow as he snoozed away in blissful slumber. It was Clark, and the ideas he’d put in his head.

 

Appealing it might be, but he couldn’t afford to entertain the multiverse idea. There was no reason to think Clark Kent came from anywhere except right here, this Earth, somewhere in Kansas. Besides, a multitude of worlds didn’t mean infinite happily ever afters. There could be worlds where they knew each other, where they were friends…or lovers…but where one watched the other die. Worlds where they were bitter enemies.

 

He felt more grounded turning over those possibilities. Dwell too long on the other and he would have to wonder if there were realities where his parents weren’t gunned down in the street. Where they lived happily after and he never became Batman.

 

He sighed, thoughts inevitably straying down that path anyway. To a world where gunfire didn't shattered the night. Where another boy didn't watched his parents plummet from a circus high wire to their deaths. A world where Bruce got there in time to save Jason…

 

He shook his head, all too aware of the futility in such thoughts. Life was what it was and pretty dreams wouldn’t make it otherwise.

 

Much more concrete to consider why he was so smitten with Clark. Turned on his side, he watched him sleeping, and told himself he had the option to be content with the situation. Let it run its course and leave well enough alone. He could--if he wasn’t Batman.

 

What was it, then? Impossible not to go straight to the idea of some kind of sex pollen. It didn’t feel like that, not exactly, and anyway Poison Ivy was locked up in Arkham. He’d have heard if she was out again. What if someone else--Harley Quinn?--got their hands on the formula? He didn’t think it was Harley’s style. On the other hand, it was a fair question to ask if his instincts could be trusted under the present circumstances. It had to be in that vicinity, though. A chemical reaction of some kind. Slow-acting, time-released, administered to him… _When?_  When could he have been exposed? And how did Clark factor into everything?

 

His mind was turning to ideas like what if Clark was the carrier, spreading enhanced pheromones like some sexed up Typhoid Mary, when a sound from the other bed dragged him back. Probably just as well, he decided as he sat up and turned the lamp back on.

 

Clark was still out of it but he was muttering, nothing Bruce could quite make out. Deep in REM sleep from the look of it, and not pleasant dreams if the way he had started to thrash around was anything to go by. “Damn it,” he grumbled to himself as he got up and crossed the short distance to Clark. Stop to help someone and a thousand consequences and obligations were unleashed. “Goddamned butterfly effect,” he growled some more as he sat down beside Clark.

 

“Uh?”

 

“Nothing, it’s nothing,” he muttered as Clark’s head rolled on the pillow. He wasn’t awake but maybe he was aware on some level that Bruce was beside him, that he wasn’t alone. The pillow was damp with perspiration. Bruce dragged it out, tossed it in a corner, and propped a fresh one under Clark’s head. “There, that’s better.”

 

Another, inarticulate sound was the only reply but Bruce took it for agreement.

 

“I’ll be right back,” he said, on his feet again to duck into the bathroom and run another washcloth under the tap. Wringing it out, he returned to Clark’s side, running the cool, damp cloth over his face, along his throat. That seemed to soothe him.

 

Bruce had grown used to his own nightmares over the years. If they weren’t comfortable and welcome companions, they were at least familiar by now. It took something by way of Jervis Tetch or Scarecrow to knock him for a loop these days. What never got easy was this, having to sit by, helpless, while someone else struggled, trapped deep in their unconscious mind. In the end there was little enough to do but wait it out while they fought their way back, and be there if they wanted to talk. Not that he had ever been good at that second part.

 

“Clark?” He ran the damp cloth over his forehead again, reached to brush raven curls back from his face.

 

Eyelids flickered, lifted partway. Bleary blue eyes, fringed by long lashes, stared back at him with a flicker of recognition. Clark’s chest heaved with a deep breath, like a sigh of relief, and his lips curved with a hint of a smile as his eyes drifted shut again. The unconscious crisis past, Clark turned his face into the pillow with a happy snuffle, ready for a happier trip to dreamland.

 

Bruce wadded up the wash cloth and placed it on the nightstand, ready to return to his own bed. As he made to get up, however, a hand latched onto his arm and tugged, insistent. Bruce couldn’t suppress an impatient growl as he tried to get free. The tug grew more insistent, accompanied by a wordless demand for Bruce to stay.

 

Bruce blew out his own aggravated sigh. How the hell did he get into situations like this? It wasn’t like he couldn’t get free--but there would be pain involved.

 

“Fine.” If there was more of exasperation than graciousness in that one word, the vexation was tempered with a bizarre kind of affection. Bizarre because it came out of the blue, no rhyme or reason to any of it. If he didn’t know it was impossible, that there was no such thing as magic, he might have to wonder less about sex pollen and more about having fallen under a love spell.

 

He reached over to turn off the lamp, then stretched out alongside Clark. The beds were full-size, a step up from a twin, so there was room enough. Clark’s body radiated warmth that was as good as an electric blanket. And besides, if things had worked out differently tonight they would have shared a bed anyway. It all sounded like a sensible and convincing argument to him, anyway.

 

Beside him, Clark made another happy snuffle and let go of his arm. Before Bruce could think of slipping away, he flung an arm across him and promptly went back to sleep. Bruce tested the arm, made sure he could get free at any time, and told himself the only reason he didn’t was because he had nothing to prove. That sounded completely on the up and up as well.

 

Anyway, there was every chance Clark wouldn’t remember any of this in the morning. And Bruce just wouldn’t examine why that idea should bother him.

 

He shifted around a bit, let his eyes close. He wouldn’t sleep. His brain was buzzing with far too many thoughts for that. No harm in resting his eyes, though. No harm at all, he concluded as he listened to Clark’s breathing. Slow and steady, a barely detectable rumble that wasn’t really like a cat’s purr except for a similar, soothing rhythm that, if you weren’t careful, could lull you right to sleep…

 

~*~

 

“You ever try these?” Lt. General Calvin Swanwick sat down at the hotel dining table and tore open the package of Oreo Thins Mint he’d just gotten from the vending machine. “Just as good as the ones the Girl Scouts sell and a whole lot cheaper.”

 

Bruce regarded General Swanwick, munching away on his cookies. Flicked his gaze to the other end of the table where Clark was being monopolized by the _Daily Planet’s_  Lois Lane. And tried to pin down exactly when this day had gone all to hell.

 

=======

**Author's Note:**

> ::phew:: So, first my laptop froze up immediately after I had finished this chapter and had just begun to proofread it. Prayer nor pleas nor thumps would unfreeze it, so there was nothing for it but to shut it off, reboot, and cross my fingers everything would be okay. It was ::knock wood:: but that was a moment of anxiety I would rather not experience again.
> 
> And then, when I came over here to do the copy-and-paste thing, it proceeded to multiply so that by the time it stopped there were about a hundred versions of it. No idea what that was about, and having to go through and cut all those extra versions was a pain so I'm hoping that never happens again, either.
> 
> Perhaps those were omens? ::shrug:: Guess we'll see.
> 
> Anyway, feedback would be lovely. Kudos would be great. I know I'm horrible about replies but I do appreciate each and every comment.
> 
> Thank you for reading this.
> 
> ETA: Ooops! Forgot to credit this -- http://katsuyacrimson.tumblr.com/post/137261965504/25-lives-tongari-refs-used-superbat -- as some of the inspiration for the talk of multiverse stuff in this.


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